The Last Good Year

When I was a teen, I used to write novel after novel about a group of fabulous and tortured immortal beings. Some of you out there may have even *CRINGE* read them. For that, I apologize. But my point is that my favorite characters I created became immortal at various ages that I, as a teen, thought were awesome. 22 was one, as was 27 and 33. 22 was a watershed year for me as I left college and started teaching. Getting away from University of Iowa party culture and getting healthy in a job I adored made that year one of the times I know I was the most happy that I’ve ever been. I felt like there was some kind of connection between how I used to covet age 22 and the magic that came from this time in my life in some way.

Honestly, I can’t remember exactly what it was about age 27, but something good happened then, too. Well, year 33 was the year I was really sure I was going to get a book deal. I have like two weeks or less and… nope.

BUT I have had a LOT of successes this year with my short stories. So many have found a home in anthologies and journals. Success for me really started in 2015 when “Duck Pond” won the short story prize for the Springfield Writers’ Guild. Since then, I’ve written somewhere around 15 short stories, and 9 of them have been published somewhere. That is super, super encouraging. And even better, Running Wild Press asked me to turn “Idylls of the King” into a novel.

I am a writer. I still feel weird saying it, but I finally thing I am legit. The only thing that separates me from most published authors is their self-advocacy and a good dose of luck. We all work hard, we all have great ideas. Some are just at the right place at the right time. Some HAVE the time and the means to promote themselves.

Thank you so much to everyone for their help. I didn’t come to feeling like a writer without the love and support of so many people. Sigh. 34. Oh well. We’ll see if it’s any different. There are no “good” birthdays after this.